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Saturday, January 26, 2008

To Hear the Falling World

Only if I move my arm a certain way,it comes back.Or the way the light bends in the treesthis time of year,so a scrap of sorrow, like a bird, lights on the heart.I carry this in my body, seedin an unswept corner, husk-encowled and seeming safe.But they guard me, these small pains,from growing sureof myself and perhaps forgetting.